Cordelia
by Tairona
Summary: PreHMC. A Belated Warning: Not a HowlSophie pairing! Yes, shoot me ... Howell finishes his studies with Mrs. Pentstemmon, gets his first job in Porthaven, finds himself yet another girl to target, and discovers something interesting about falling stars
1. In which a wizard finds employment

**Disclaimer: **If only I had created HMC, then my life's purpose would be fulfilled. Unfortunately, I didn't ... but DWJ did! So yay for her!

**A/n: **Ok, I tweaked this chapter a little, although not by much. I basically just changedsome ofCordelia's backstory in an attempt to make her less Mary-Sueish.

* * *

**Chapter One: In which a wizard finds employment, and then some ... **

"Porthaven?" Howell tried, but he could not quite keep himself from scoffing.

Mrs. Pentstemmon gave him a scathing look that made Howell feel like he was slowly being vaporized by an atomic bomb. Not that he had ever experienced that particular sensation, but he was sure that if he ever did, it would be quite similar to this. He braced himself for a sharp remark, or perhaps even a lecture. But Mrs. Pentstemmon simply averted her gaze, pointedly (and thankfully) looking somewhere over Howell's right shoulder.

"Yes, Porthaven," Mrs. Pentstemmon finally said, her tone mild. "I felt that it would be a most convenient location in which you could get started, considering the fact that the portal that leads to your home world is _in _Porthaven."

"Right ... convenient ..." Howell swallowed hard. A part of himself argued that he was being ungrateful. With everything that he had recently put Mrs. Pentstemmon through, he was lucky that she was helping him to find a job at all. However, the rest of himself was absolutely indignant. Porthaven? A fishing town? That was no place for a person of his abilities.

"That's very considerate of you," Howell forced a smile, took a deep breath, and then took the plunge. "But I was thinking—"

"You were thinking what?" Mrs. Pentstemmon rounded on him.

_Here it comes, _Howell thought …

"You were thinking that you might sell your services in Kingsbury?" Mrs. Pentstemmon continued, arching an expectant eyebrow.

"Yes, exactly," Howell smiled, trying to sound confident. "As usual, it looks as though my heart and mind are open books to you, Mrs. Pentstemmon."

"And what makes you think that anyone would come to you in Kingsbury right now? After the scandal you caused with the Countess of Wexfield?"

"Come now, not _everyone _knows about that," Howell protested.

"I'm lucky that anyone still comes to _me _after the outrageous way in which you've behaved," Mrs. Pentstemmon shook her head ruefully. "As my student, you've reflected quite poorly on me."

"I can't see why my love affairs should reflect upon you at all … you were meant to teach me magic, not proper romantic conduct," Howell laughed. "And besides … a seventeen year old girl married off to a sixty year old man? Even if he is a Count, that's the outrage in this situation. Poor girl should be allowed to live a little—to have some fun with someone her own age!"

"How altruistic of you Howell, to show her a 'fun' time," Mrs. Pentstemmon's words were positively venomous.

"You know me," Howell murmured quietly. "Always thinking of others."

"Well, I've done my best to help you," Mrs. Pentstemmon abruptly stood up, her jewel-studded gown flashing in the evening sunlight.

"I'll take it," Howell announced, just as abruptly. "I'll … work in Porthaven."

With that, he turned a wistful gaze towards the hall's expansive windows, and the shining spires of Kingsbury that lay beyond them. The light of the setting sun traced his profile in scarlet and gold. He sighed heavily.

"Now don't look so tragic, boy," Mrs. Pentstemmon snapped, but in a remarkably sympathetic manner, her tone softened by the sight of her gloomy student. "I have high hopes for you yet. Remember … you're only twenty-one. Most magicians work all of their lives without developing the skills that come so naturally to you. And you're still improving. Yes, you'll certainly have your day in the royal court … if you don't destroy it first, that is. You just need to have some patience—and to learn some self-restraint."

"I _am _self-restrained," Howell grumbled. "It isn't my fault if women throw themselves at me."

* * *

Cordelia Parry had been raised to be a lady. Back at home, under her parents' watchful gaze and wrapped in her brother's overprotective arms, there was no question about what this meant. You had to be sweet and proper and obedient; a caring daughter, a dutiful wife, a charming hostess. It really couldn't have been simpler. 

But Cordelia's parents soon began to feel that their daughter was too smart to end her days as a wife and homemaker. So at the tender age of fourteen, she was sent across the Atlantic to attend an American boarding school. And suddenly, what it meant to be a lady became much more complex.

Under the tutelage of her fellow female students, Cordelia underwent the kind of education that your parents definitely don't pay for. Her first lesson was on how to do moderately well in school while doing a minimal amount of work. This ensured that there was plenty of time available to learn other, more valuable lessons. She learned how to wear her skirts short and her heels high. She learned how to smoke cigarettes and to do shots of hard liquor without grimacing. She learned how to get into clubs and bars using a confident attitude, a fake ID card, and cleavage. She learned how to be both easy and hard to get.

Yes, with the help of her fellow female students, Cordelia learned that being a lady could actually be quite fun.

And now here she was, back in Wales to start university. It was the first time that she had come home in four years. Before now, she had always managed to find an excuse to stay away, even during school vacations—there were always internships or summer courses or friends who were dying to have her stay with them for a few weeks. But now that she had finally graduated... well, let's quit beating around the bush ... truth be told, she was finally feeling homesick.

She lifted her oversized sunglasses, peering out from beneath their rims at her parents' unassuming house.

"What they don't know can't hurt them," she told herself, snapping her gum, and smiling merrily at the thought of her many exploits. She then lowered her shades back into position, and swaggered towards the front door.

* * *

"So what's Gareth up to these days?" Cordelia asked casually, observing an apple she'd just taken a bite out of. "Megan keeping him on a tight leash?" 

"Your brother doesn't need to be kept on a tight leash," Enid Parry told her daughter reproachfully. "He's quite responsible enough on his own."

Enid turned from her dishwashing, and scrutinized Cordelia's appearance with a look of intense displeasure in her eyes. Cordelia had to repress a convulsion of laughter. Surely this was not the first time her mother had seen a girl wearing leather pants and stiletto heels. Well, on second thought, perhaps it was ...

"Oh Mam," Cordelia leapt at her mother, giving her a rambunctious hug and a big kiss on the cheek. "I'm sure Gareth has a wild side, even if we've never seen it."

"Well, I certainly hope it doesn't look like yours," Enid chuckled, finally warming a bit to her transformed little girl. "Leather doesn't suit Gareth."

"What about heels?" Cordelia tore out another chunk of apple. "I think Megan'd fancy Gareth in some heels. With some little rhinestones sprinkled around the toes, perhaps?"

And the two women dissolved in amiable laughter.

* * *

"Gareth, why don't you come _here?_" Cordelia pouted over the phone. "It's such a long way to that little ... swamp ... that you call home! And it's terribly boring ... there's _nothing_ to do. I shall die of _ennui_ if you make me go there." 

"Cordelia, this place is hardly a swamp—" Gareth began.

"I know, I know, the ground is quite dry, I just couldn't think of a word that sounded more in-the-middle-of-nowhere-ish."

"—and Neil has a nasty stomach bug right now. I can't just leave Megan alone with him."

"Well, Howell still lives with you, doesn't he? He can help, can't he?" Cordelia tried.

Gareth chuckled. "Howell's about as helpful as a hole in the head, considering he's never around anymore ... lord only knows where that boy gets off to ... look, just come for a day or two. Megan would love to see you again—"

"Don't be so sure," Cordelia muttered to herself.

"—and if Howell actually materializes again, I think you two would get along quite well now," Gareth finished.

"Really?" Cordelia's tone was skeptical. "And what makes you think Howell and I will get along now? Last time I saw him, he teased me so thoroughly I swear I still need psychological therapy in order to recover."

At this, Gareth became possessed by a fit of laughter that went on for several minutes.

"Are you quite done yet, brother?" Cordelia asked.

"Yes," Gareth finally managed to speak as he gasped for air. "But that is exactly why I say you and Howell are going to get along. You both have ... a melodramatic flair, shall we say? A tendency to overexaggerate?"

"Oh, sod off," Cordelia snorted.

* * *

Howell left Mrs. Pentstemmon's feeling dejected and martyred. Scandal or no scandal, he felt that he had done the Countess of Wexfield quite the favor by having a little tryst with her. Admittedly, she was stunningly beautiful, so he couldn't say that it had been a completely selfless act—and on second thought, if it had been a completely selfless act, that would make him something like a volunteer male prostitute. Howell Jenkins was many things, but definitely not that. 

In any case, he shouldn't be punished for simply enjoying life. To be exiled to Porthaven, to waste the prime of his life upon the tedious, unchallenging work of wind spells and sailor's protection charms! Oh lord …

He hastily threw down a transport spell and found himself in the Porthaven marshes, standing before the portal that he had opened for himself four years ago. He distractedly transfigured his clothes, and strode through the interdimensional doorway into the midst of a wood that lay on the outside of his village. He managed to walk all the way home without even noticing that he had done so. His mind was so full of the afternoon's proceedings that it wasn't until he stumbled into another human being that he awoke to his surroundings.

"Whoa there, don't run me over!" Howell felt small, bony hands on his chest, pushing him backwards.

"'Whoa there?' Do I look like a horse?" Howell took a step backwards and carefully smoothed out his t-shirt. What a perfect ending to this day, to have his clothing accosted against his will …

"No, you …... is that you Howell?" a female voice inquired.

Howell looked up from his violated shirt. Standing there in front of him was one of the most intriguing specimens of the female sex that he had ever laid eyes upon. She was quite petite, with a face composed of features that were both elfin and doll-like. He would have thought she was delicate, except for … well, except for everything else about her. She wore leather pants and stiletto heels, her brown bob of hair was streaked with flaming purple, and her dark eyes contained a feisty spark.

"Do I know you?" Howell asked after a long minute, remembering that this spunky elf had said his name.

"It's me, Cordelia! Gareth's sister! Don't you remember me?"

Howell was having a hard time remembering himself at the moment. Usually the bad-punk-girl look didn't do it for him, especially after so much time in Ingary … but there was just something about her … and she had such a hypnotizing accent when she spoke English … it still had a Welsh lilt to it, but a heavy American flavoring had made it into an exotic hybrid animal …

"Howell?"

"Of course I remember you Cordelia," Howell recovered his composure as swiftly as he could, smiling and lowering his voice seductively.

_Do I remember you? _he thought to himself. _I remember a shy little thirteen-year old with pigtails and frilly dresses. I've never even seen_ this_ Cordelia before …_

"I must say, you look absolutely beautiful," Howell wasted absolutely no time, gazing at her with all the profound soulfulness that his green eyes could muster.

"Uh …" Cordelia gaped at what was clearly an unexpected advance. "… thank you. You … look … nice, too. I was just getting my bag from my car—"

"No need to exert yourself. I'll get it for you," Howell took her gently by the elbow and began walking in a random direction that he hoped was towards her car.

"This way," Cordelia released herself from his hold and went the other way. "And it's just one bag. I don't need any help. I'll meet you inside!"

"It's been such a long time since we've seen each other, Cordelia," Howell pressed onwards, seemingly unperturbed. "And I don't think we'll be able to do any proper catching up with Megan and Gareth around."

"I think we'll be able to catch up just fine with Megan and Gareth around," Cordelia tossed her head, flipping her short locks in a dismissive way.

"Why don't we sneak out tonight," Howell proposed. "It'll be an adventure."

"It'll be like we're little kids," Cordelia scoffed.

"Then it's a date!" Howell declared. He leaned in, gave her a peck on the cheek, then brushed his index finger against her lips. "Shh … no telling."

* * *

**More a/n:**To be seen in later chapters... Howell's first run in with Michael, and that fateful meeting with Calcifer ... but of course, not before Howell tries to bust a move on Gareth's baby sister ... 


	2. Which involves limerence and landlords

**Chapter Two: Which involves limerence and landlords **

As they made their way back to the Parry household, Cordelia told Howell in no uncertain terms that she refused to take part in his little game. Really, it was a matter of pride. Some people seemed to think that because she was a sexually open girl (as she liked to phrase it) that she had no pride. But Cordelia had a strict policy: once a boy rejected her, he never got a second chance.

Now admittedly, Howell had never rejected her—how could he have? It had never crossed her mind to pursue him. But when she was younger, he had hurt her feelings by constantly poking fun at her. And this was the perfect opportunity to even the score—for what better way was there to get back at him than by depriving him of something that he wanted?

* * *

Megan had a field day at dinner. Between Cordelia and Howell, she didn't know who to be more frustrated with. Fortunately, Cordelia had two things on her side. One, the only thing about Cordelia that could be readily criticized was her appearance. Two, without further proof that her sister-in-law had gone astray (and Megan was quite sure that she had), Megan had to restrain herself from launching an all out attack on the girl. After all, that was Gareth's area of jurisdiction … and if he wasn't going to exercise his authority … well, there was always Howell to turn on …

Megan's endless disapproval of Howell proved to be quite the source of amusement for Cordelia. Megan snapped at him for putting his elbows on the table, grilled him about where he kept disappearing to, and when he told her he'd been at the library, she made some very unsubtle comments about the uselessness of a degree in anthropology.

"Especially when you're focusing on the use of spells and charms in society," Megan spit out the last bit of that sentence as though it was a particularly sour lemon. "How is that going to contribute anything to the world? And more importantly, how is that going to get you a job? What do you plan to do—go live with a tribe of shamans in the Amazon?"

"Definitely not the Amazon—it's too sunny there—I'd have wrinkles before I was thirty!" Howell declared.

"Then what?" Megan demanded.

"I was thinking I'd go live with some wizards in a parallel dimension," Howell said with a perfectly straight face.

Cordelia would have laughed at Megan's expression—in fact, Gareth did laugh. But the moment was ruined for Cordelia by Howell winking at her. Why did he have to act as though they shared some intimate connection? In fact, all throughout dinner he'd been acting as if she hadn't refused him at all. The nerve of him—grinning at her as though they shared an inside joke, "accidentally" caressing her knee as he leaned forward to retrieve a dropped napkin …

Cordelia was especially annoyed because she knew that she would crumble in the face of his persistence. She hated to admit it, but in spite of her policy and her apparent feistiness, she actually had a very hard time saying "no" to people. She could do it once or twice … but if that didn't deter a person …

* * *

The more she thought about it, the more she realized that she wasn't entirely opposed to the idea of a date (or to the idea of something else entirely ...) with Howell. He _was_ terribly attractive—even more so than the last time she'd seen him. Perhaps it was his new hair color—black really was an improvement over his naturally brown locks. And then there was the fact that he was smart. From the midst of Megan's critical ramblings, Cordelia had managed to pick out the rather impressive fact that Howell was already working on his PhD. And wasn't he only twenty-one? That was simply unheard of. Cordelia actually found herself envying him—by the time she was twenty-one, she would only be starting on her masters.

No, as far as men went, Howell was definitely not the worst she could do. And he hadn't _actually _rejected her, so she wouldn't really be breaking her policy. Plus, she had also gathered from Megan's grumbling that Howell had a tendency to drop girls as soon as he won them over, so it wasn't as though she'd be stuck with him for very long …

Cordelia's mind continued to work in this manner, listing reason after reason as to why she didn't actually have to go to the effort of turning Howell down yet again. In fact, her mind became so engrossed with its rationalizations that she was still awake when he quietly stepped into her room at two in the morning. For a second, she thought about pretending to be asleep … but only for a second …

* * *

Howell was not entirely without common sense when it came to women. True, he was _mostly_ without common sense—but not entirely. There was a tiny (perhaps microscopic) part of himself that insisted on reminding the rest of him that he was only infatuated with Cordelia. But whenever he was wistfully daydreaming about the current object of his desire, it just didn't flow too well to think, "I'm infatuated with so-and-so." No, that particular phrasing was far too cumbersome (and far too pragmatic). Indeed, it was much smoother, much more poetic, to simply think, "I'm in love."

So that's what Howell thought to himself as he walked the streets of Porthaven the next day. And for once in his life, this self-delusion was beneficial—it functioned like a drug, taking the edge off of what would have otherwise been an unbearably frustrating time.

You see, Porthaven was just not Howell's cup of tea, nor was it his pint of beer or any other beverage he might consider consuming. For one, it was almost exactly like his hometown in Wales. Sure, there were fishermen instead of farmers, and an ocean instead of fields—but that was where the distinction between the two ended. If Howell hadn't been so busy imagining possible future encounters with Cordelia, he would have been moaning to himself about the injustice of going _so far _(hell, he went to another universe!) only to end up basically where he had started out from: in a small town, with hard-working, _boring_ people who had no appreciation for his flamboyant spirit or for magic ...

And yes, the people of Porthaven had no appreciation for magic. In fact, there had not been a single witch or wizard working in or around Porthaven ever since Mrs. Pentstemmon moved to Kingsbury some fifty odd years ago. Howell found this terribly hard to fathom. After all, magic in Ingary was as necessary as technology was in his home world. A town going without magic here was like a town going without electricity in Britain.

But the analogy apparently had its limitations, because the people of Porthaven got on perfectly fine without magic. Which only made matters worse for Howell. It was bad enough that he was dealing with people who weren't accustomed to magic, and who were therefore wary of it. But he also had to be dealing with people who didn't have an obvious need for magic, and who were therefore that much more unlikely to welcome it—or him—into their lives.

* * *

It started with the landlord. Mrs. Pentstemmon had found Howell a small, crooked house near Porthaven's harbor. The man who owned the place was short and round, with bushy sand-colored sideburns and a ruddy complexion. He had squinty blue eyes that became even squintier upon catching sight of Howell in his gaudy finery.

"So what is it exactly that you do, uh, Mr. ...?"

"Umm ..." Howell hesitated for a moment, quickly debating with himself as to what name he should use here. Usually, he took great care when inventing his pseudonyms, making sure that they fit the location and the occasion perfectly, and that they projected the ideal image. In the past, he had even used numerology to analyze possible aliases, just to make sure that his new name wasn't going to give him some undesirable quality (of course, he later concluded that numerology was just amusing nonsense, but that's another story …).

This time, however, his brain had gotten so tangled up in fantasies of Cordelia that he had completely neglected his usual name-choosing routine.

"Jenkin," he finally said. And when he said it, he realized it was quite fitting. Why not use a name that was virtually the same as his real one, when this town was virtually like his home?

"But please, call me Howl," he added, smiling in a pleasantly distracted manner.

"So what is it exactly that you do, Mr. Jenkin?" the landlord repeated.

"Hmm," was Howell's only response, as he was currently inventing scenarios in which he somehow, inexplicably ran into Cordelia in the streets of Porthaven. He thought she would look rather lovely dressed like a sea-side maid, with a billowing skirt and a ruffling blouse …

"Mr. Jenkin?" the landlord eyed Howell suspiciously. It was clear that he was quickly coming to the conclusion that Howell was no longer in possession of all of his marbles.

"Oh … yes," Howell painfully snapped himself back to reality. "What do I do … why, don't you know? I'm the town's new wizard."

The landlord somehow managed to squint even more while simultaneously raising his eyebrows. He sped headlong into his conclusion regarding Howell's sanity, crashing into it with a nearly audible mental thud. Yes, after that response, he definitely thought that Howell belonged in an asylum, and not in Porthaven, and especially not in a building that he owned.

"A wizard, huh?" the landlord snorted. "So what, you do spells and the like?"

"Indeed," Howell nodded. "Is there any particular spell that you'd like? One to cure near-sightedness, perhaps?"

The landlord only hardened his squint. "How about something to make sure you pay your rent on time?"

"Why on earth would you need a spell for that?" Howell directed his question towards the sky. "My good fellow, I assure you that I pay my bills as regularly as the tide comes in. And in case you still doubt me …"

Howell reached into his pocket and withdrew a silk purse. He dumped nearly all of its contents into the landlord's broad hands, feeling terrifically magnanimous as he did so.

"That should cover the next few months," Howell patted the man amiably on one round shoulder. "Until then, take care, my myopic friend."

* * *

The landlord stared at the pile of gold coins resting in his hands. He was utterly flabbergasted. Howell couldn't have stunned the man more had he turned him into a toad. As for Howell, in his current state of love-induced impairment, it hadn't quite hit him that he had just given away almost all of the money he had to his name.

Well, so much the better.

Howell dreamily went into his new home, and barely saw what it looked like. He somehow managed to cast a spell to transport his belongings from Mrs. Pentstemmon's, but even that suffered from his distracted condition. He just couldn't stop thinking of Cordelia: Cordelia in the aforementioned billowy dress, taking that aforementioned billowy dress off of Cordelia, Cordelia on the beach, Cordelia in the water, Cordelia being kidnapped by pirates and subsequently being rescued by Howell … It was only after he turned one of his favorite suits into a floor mat during the transportation process that he finally began to wake up.

During that time period, word of Howell's coming had already spread through half of Porthaven. It started with the landlord complaining to his sister that a crazy (albeit wealthy) wizard was now one of their tenants. The sister then went to her husband and the husband went to his cousin and the cousin went to the pub, and by the time the news had reached the other side of town, people were gasping in horror at the fact that Porthaven was now home to a dark sorcerer who fed babies to dragons in exchange for treasure.

The rumors then ricocheted back to the side of Porthaven that had first witnessed Howell's arrival. The cousin left the pub and drunkenly went to the husband who went to the sister who hit the landlord over the head with a rolling pin, hysterically demanding how her brother could have accepted money stained with innocent blood. For a moment, the landlord wondered about that himself, but the glittering of the gold provided a rather satisfying answer.

In any case, it wasn't surprising that when Howell re-emerged from his little townhouse in order to make his way back to his own world (and to his lovely Cordelia), that he observed the people along his street behaving quite bizarrely. Many frantically ran indoors as he walked by, while others glared fiercely or even hissed at him.

_Well, this is certainly a bit worse than I expected, _Howell thought to himself. _Perhaps I shouldn't have worn pink …_

But then the sister of the landlord came running after him withthe rolling pin, screaming that he had stolen her brother's soul. It was at times like this that all thoughts of color-coordination fled Howell's mind and survival instincts took over. He threw down a spell and teleported to the Porthaven marshes.

No, Porthaven was definitely not Howell's cup of tea. And for that matter, Howell had thoroughly proved that he was not Porhaven's cup of tea either.

* * *

It was an understatement to say that Howell was relieved to be back in Wales. It was also an understatement to say that this relief was terribly unnerving. If Wales suddenly seemed more inviting than Ingary, Howell felt that his life had lost its meaning, and that he might have to hang himself.

Fortunately for Howell, he remembered that Cordelia lived in Wales. He plucked a few blades of grass from beneath his feet, and transformed them into three luscious red roses. Suddenly, it made perfect sense for Wales to seem more inviting than Ingary. Really, what had he ever been thinking to leave home like that? He had gone _so far_ (hell, he went to another universe!) and yet the thing he was looking for had always been right under his nose. (Well, it had always been right under his nose minus the four years that it had been off in America …).

When Howell arrived back at Rivendell, he found Cordelia by herself in the kitchen, drinking a glass of water. There was something so exquisite about the way she drank water—the way she held the glass with one hand while the other rested on her hip, the way she tilted her pointed chin, the way she gazed off into the distance. He leaned against the kitchen doorway, roses in hand, content to watch as she quenched her thirst.

"I got something for you," he said softly after she put the glass down.

She jumped, first looking startled, and then looking somewhat disappointed.

_Ah, she must be upset that I was gone all day,_ he thought to himself.

Cordelia didn't move as he walked up to her. She didn't say anything, though as she caught sight of the roses, her disappointed look turned to one of apprehension. She still didn't speak even after she had taken the roses from his hands. She stared down into their vast, velvety blossoms, her face tightening as if she was very anxious and very determined to accomplish something.

"Howell, I don't do serious relationships," she finally said, speaking fast and with an edge of panic in her voice. "I mean, you probably weren't thinking that … I mean, last night was … I mean, I don't know what you're thinking … but if you're thinking that …"

"Cordelia, dear, they're just flowers. I don't do serious relationships either," Howell smiled disarmingly, then sauntered out of the kitchen. He left Cordelia standing there, staring at the roses much like the landlord had stared at his gold coins.

* * *

**A/n:** "Limerence" is technically a mature version of infatuation ... Howl probably isn't being mature here, but I just thought the word sounded nice in the title. :)

And sorry to anyone who's feeling pain on Sophie's behalf because of this fic ... feel free to shoot me for writing about Howl with an OC. :)

As for why I have Howl acting like a playboy before he's given his heart away ... well, hopefully this fic will explain why I chose that stance when it's finished. :)

Now,on an unrelated side note ... is there any way to prevent the spaces between words from being deleted when you upload documents?


	3. In which a little balloon causes

**A/n: **For better or worse, Cordelia is not making an appearance in this chapter, and she probably won't be in the next one either (for better or worse, she will come back later, and the two storylines—i.e. the Cordelia one and the Porthaven one—will come together and have bizarre mutant children ... ) ... in the meantime, someone _else _makes an appearance in this chapter ... and okay, I need to stop putting teasers everywhere (and I also need to stop using ellipses). ;p

* * *

**Chapter Three: In which a little balloon causes a lot of fuss**

A rare event had occurred, one rarer than the coming of Haley's comet: Howell Jenkins had begun to doubt himself.

To give the man (and his arrogance … err … confidence …) credit, it was only a _twinge_ of doubt. Any normal human being would have bowed their head and conceded defeat by now. But not Howell Jenkins—not _the _Sorcerer Jenkin (as he was calling himself these days). He absolutely refused to give in! One way or another,he was going to establish himself in Porthaven. Alternatively, he planned on dying a horribly tragic death while trying to establish himself in Porthaven—the kind of horribly tragic death that bards write epic poems about and that downtrodden people make religions out of and that Americans make bad movies out of and …

Oh, but it was no good. Even as these thoughts coursed through his mind, Howell felt that dratted twinge again. First of all, "the Sorcerer Jenkin" did not have a very impressive ring to it … what had he been thinking, using that name? And that was just the least of his problems.

Howell had been in Porthaven for four months now, and aside from a few desperate teenagers looking for love spells, he still barely had any business. He had been all over town, from the baker's to the butcher's to the candlestick maker's, all in a grand attempt to sell his services. He had been aggressively charismatic and charismatically aggressive, but to no avail. Even after he had performed a few marvelous demonstrations for them, they still refused him. Things are already great as they are, they informed him.

For all his brilliance, Howell could not figure out why the people of Porthaven were responding to him in this way. Sure, there had been the baby-killing-dragon scandal. But he had quickly cleared that up with a bit of reasoning, a fair amount of flirting, and a heavy dose of charm. As an added precaution, he had even transfigured his bright pink suit so that it was now the slightly less shocking color of salmon. By all means, he should have been good to go after that. Even if these people were wary of magic (or of men wearing neon colors), he didn't see how they could resist the magnetism of a gorgeous and talented wizard such as himself for _too _long.

But resist they did, causing Howell to become increasingly perplexed, frustrated, and depressed. That, and hungry, too. Oh yes, that was yet another difficulty he could add to his already monumental list of woes. You see, after that incident with the landlord, Howell had quickly used up the remainder of his money. On the upside of things, he wasn't going to be worrying about rent for quite some time (and he had bought the most exquisite set of imported coral jewelry with the money he had left over …). On the downside of things, he was only able to steal so much food from Megan's house before she noticed …

Well, no need to belabor the point any more. It can easily be seen why Howell was suffering from these abominable twinges. Luckily for Howell, though, he had an ace up his trailing sleeve—and no, it had nothing to do with eating seaweed. Recently, Howell's divination spells had revealed that a fierce storm was barreling up from the southern oceans towards Ingary. It would be the first truly dangerous weather the country had seen in months. And from the looks of it, Porthaven would be caught right in the middle of it.

The news made Howell smile. Not that he relished the thought of sailors fending for their lives in a tempest. And never mind the sailors—_he_ didn't want to be caught in a tempest, either, even if he was safe and sheltered on land. But the approaching storm meant that the residents of Porthaven finally had a genuine need for magic. No more trying to sell them spells to whiten the teeth or charms to vaporize moles—no more! Howell had something much more valuable to offer them now. He had protection spells.

Early in the day, Howell sauntered out of his crooked house, salmon suit gleaming in the sunlight, one coral stone hanging from his ear. He whistled a little tune of his own design that was quite jaunty (though terribly off-key). He almost seemed to be skipping across the cobblestones in his shining leather boots.

He headed for the harbor, as he had many times before in the past few months when he was making his self-promotion rounds. As usual, he found the place bustling with activity. Boats were coming and going, their sails fluttering in the stiff breeze. Cranes were groaning as they moved heavy wooden crates from ship deck to dock and back again. Captains were barking out orders, fishermen were unloading their nets, sailors and deckhands were scrambling up and down gangplanks and rope ladders and masts. Fish merchants had set up their stalls and were feverishly haggling with both sellers and buyers. And children ran blithely about the quayside, playing ball or simply chasing seagulls, oblivious to the work going on about them.

Howell smiled to himself as a gaggle of kids went streaking past with a worn brown ball tangled up in their whirling mass of running, kicking legs. It made him think of playing rugby with his friends when he was a boy. Perhaps not _all_ of Porthaven's similarities to his home world were so bad …

A gust of wind blew sheets of blue-black hair across his face, shaking him from his nostalgia. Using one hand to shield his eyes from the brilliant sun, he scanned the harbor, searching the busy scene for a particular face. Many of the faces were familiar to him by now. He had gotten to know quite a few of the captains and fishermen during his one-man advertising campaigns. Most of them treated him warily or as a nuisance, their response to him being lukewarm at best. But some were friendlier than others, some such as … aha! Howell had found his man: Captain Longhorn.

Howell strode over to where the Captain was standing in front of his ship, perusing some papers on a clipboard that were presumably an inventory. Longhorn was perhaps the oldest sea captain still working in Porthaven. His hair was snow white and his skin was a leathery reddish-brown from decades of practically living out on the open water. Rumor had it that he was over 100 years old. And Howell would have believed it, too, had the man not been quite so tough and spry.

Longhorn was also one of the most respected sea captains in Porthaven. And he liked Howell, for reasons that were just as mysterious as the rest of the town's reasons for disliking Howell. Maybe it was because Howell could out drink him. Maybe it was because they both had long hair. It was anyone's guess. But Howell was sure that he could convince the man to buy a protection spell for his ship. And once Longhorn jumped on the magical train of, well, magic, it was only a matter of time before the younger captains and sailors of Porthaven followed the veteran's example. Then, once the seafarers of the town had become Howell's customers, crowd mentality should kick in, leading everyone to start buying his spells … right?

Admittedly, Howell had never been able to convince Longhorn to buy any other kind of spell. Not even a wind spell. In fact, the good captain had almost seemed insulted by the implication that his natural talents as a sailor needed magical augmentation. But Howell felt that this storm was a special case. Longhorn was not the kind of man who appreciated having to interrupt his work for something as insignificant and capricious as the weather. However, he wasn't a reckless man either (you don't get to be a 100 year old sea captain by being reckless). He wouldn't risk his cargo or his neck simply for the sake of defying nature. But if Howell could provide him with something that would allow him to _safely _defy nature … well, surely he would jump at the chance.

"Captain Longhorn!" Howell called out jovially. "Heading out again so soon?"

"Boy, when you get to be my age, you'll realize that you can't stop moving or you'll never be able to start back up again," Longhorn raised his head to regard Howell with wry blue eyes. "You're up early, ain't you? Come to try to sweet talk me into buying another spell of yours?"

"Ah, you've caught me," Howell declared, deeming that at this point it was best not to deny the accusation.

"Well, don't bother," Longhorn told him gruffly, returning his attention to his clipboard. "The answer is 'no' and you know it."

"Oh come now, you haven't even heard me out!" Howell protested genially.

Longhorn laughed—a harsh, throaty bark. "What's to hear? I've heard all about what you have to offer—from you and a dozen other folks complaining about your pestering. And I'll tell you, I ain't missing nothing."

"A storm is coming," Howell said, cutting straight to the chase.

"There've been storms before and there'll be more storms after," was Longhorn's response.

"Not like this one," Howell looked Longhorn straight in the eye, trying to be as dramatic as possible. "Ingary hasn't seen a storm like this in a hundred years—"

"I'll be the judge of that," Longhorn cut in, chuckling.

"—and Porthaven's going to be caught right in the thick of it," Howell continued. "You want to set sail within the next few days? With this weather coming in, there's not a chance of that happening—you'll be grounded for quite some time, unless you want to end up sleeping with the fish."

"I'll be sleeping the long sleep sometime soon, no matter what I do," Longhorn mused half-jokingly. "Don't suppose it makes much of a difference whether it's with the fish or with the worms."

"To you, no, I suppose it wouldn't make a difference," Howell observed, half smiling, half grimacing. "It's the fish I'm concerned about. I don't know if they could deal with such an ornery ghost."

"What should I do then? For the sake of the fish, that is?" Longhorn asked, indulging Howell.

"Listen, with one of my protection spells, you could sail through the eye of a hurricane without a scratch. It's so simple—if you buy one, storm or no storm, you can ship out right on schedule without a care in the world. You won't have to stop moving, the fish will be spared, your customers will be satisfied—"

"And you'll be satisfied even more than them," Longhorn noted.

"Everyone wins," Howell agreed, smiling brightly.

"Boy, I know you're just trying to get by like everyone else," Longhorn said. "But you ain't gonna make it like this."

_Like this? _Howell thought to himself. _What the hell does that mean? _

Before Howell could voice some variation of this thought aloud, a serious looking man with a thick beard called out a greeting to Longhorn and came striding over.

"Need help getting rid of some vermin, captain?" the man cocked his head towards Howell and laughed at the blatancy of his insult.

This man also had a familiar face. It might have been a handsome face, too, were it not hidden behind such vast amounts of brown facial hair. Howell couldn't remember the fellow's name, but it was clear that he fell into the category of people who acted lukewarm towards him at best, and who were downright nasty at their worst. Howell gritted his teeth, and had to shove his hands into his pockets to prevent himself from "accidentally" cursing the man, or perhaps just giving him a good throttling. With his hands safely restrained, he began to utter a retort, but Captain Longhorn cut in before he could get it out.

"That's awfully generous of you, Jethro, but there don't seem to be any about today."

"My mistake then," Jethro apologized while eyeing Howell warily.

Howell stared right back at the man, hardening his green eyes, hoping that his steely gaze adequately hid the fact that he was beginning to squirm internally. There was something about the way Jethro was looking at him that made him terribly uncomfortable in a way that not even Mrs. Pentstemmon could manage.

"My friend here was just telling me about a terrible storm that's supposed to hit soon," Longhorn stated conversationally.

"Really? A storm?" Jethro scoffed. "I don't believe it."

"If you know what's good for you, you will," Howell asserted.

"Oh, and I suppose _you _know what's good for me, do you? Tell me, are you going to show me this storm?" Jethro challenged.

"Unfortunately, sir, that's not how it works," Howell inclined his head politely, while still keeping his gaze as firm and cold as possible. "If divination were that simple, any sea monkey would be able to do it."

"Well, you know what, this sea monkey has lived on the water for almost forty years now," Jethro's face flushed with anger. "I don't care what your divination nonsense tells you. My _experience_ tells me that we're going to be having fine weather this week. The wind is coming from the west, there aren't any rings around the moon, the doors and windows are opening fine … would you like me to go on? Or has your divination told you not to use common sense as well?"

Howell nearly laughed at the man's adherence to weather lore. He had forgotten how backwards science could be here sometimes. Of course, this kind of lore wasn't entirely inaccurate—the signs that Jethro had listed did tend to accompany fair weather. If they didn't, sailors wouldn't still be following them after all this time. But meteorologists in Howell's home world couldn't even predict the weather with 100 accuracy (to the great dismay of the general public), and they were armed with state of the art instruments that were constantly collecting data on the atmosphere. So how could anyone here expect to be accurate (without the help of magic, that is) when all they could do was look at the sky or the direction in which the cows were facing? Sure, the wind was in the west _now_, there were no rings around the moon _now_ … but that could easily change overnight, and did not prove Howell's prediction wrong with any kind of certainty.

"You know what I think? I think that you're …" Jethro was still going, steaming away much like Megan might have. Perhaps his resemblance to Megan was what unnerved Howell so much. "… and I think that you're just making up these cock-and-bull stories about imaginary storms so that you can make a buck. Am I right?"

Howell was about to say something about trying to save the sorry arses of ignorant sailors, when a fourth party unexpectedly (and thankfully) broke into the midst of their pleasant conversation.

"Dad, can I have some money to buy a balloon animal from Mr. Pickens?" a young boy with curly brown hair had sidled up to Jethro, and was now tugging on his woolen sleeve.

Howell finally tore his gaze away from Jethro's bearded face in order to look for Mr. Pickens. He was easy enough to spot—he dressed like a clown, minus the red nose and ridiculous make-up, and he frequently walked about on stilts. Today it seemed that he had foregone the stilts in favor of wearing a monstrously shiny pair of oversized red shoes. He was standing on the quayside, blithely making balloon animals while the gaggle of children that had previously been playing with the brown ball swarmed and surrounded him. Howell felt a surge of jealousy. Even this buffoon was having a better time with business than he was. How unfair!

"Michael, do you even have to ask?" Jethro's voice contained a strange mix of irritation and regret as he answered his son. "You know we can't afford silly things like that."

Howell felt that this had to be an exaggeration. It was a balloon, not a diamond. And neither Jethro nor his son appeared to be starving. Surely the man could spare a few pence. If Howell hadn't been hopelessly broke, he would have bought the boy a balloon himself. In any case, he was nearly inspired to protest on the child's behalf. But from the look on his face, Michael didn't seem to be disappointed. He handled the rejection well, nodding stoically as if he had heard this kind of thing a hundred times before. In truth, he had probably heard this kind of thing a thousand times before.

On a whim, Howell knelt down and picked a stone up off the ground. Then, with a flick of his wrist and a well-directed pulse of energy, he willed the small grey rock into changing its shape. All at once, it expanded, changed color, became lighter, and took on a rubbery texture. Before the two sailors and the lone boy even realized what Howell was doing, a balloon had appeared in his hands, already twisted into the shape of a fanciful dog.

"In that case, here's something silly for free," Howell handed the balloon to Michael, who seemed to have gone into an advanced state of shock.

"Wow, mister," Michael gawked at the orange balloon-dog that he was now holding. "How did you _do _that?"

"Magic," Howell tried, and failed, at suppressing a grin. No one had been this openly impressed with him in ages. It felt outrageously good to be appreciated again, even if it was over something so small.

"So you really _are _a wizard then!" Michael exclaimed. "My dad always said—"

He cut off abruptly at this point, suddenly remembering that his father was standing right next to him. Jethro was glowering fiercely. Howell braced himself, knowing that he was about to hear something along the lines of how they didn't need his charity and would he kindly refrain from doling out favors that weren't asked for and would he please keep his nose out of other people's business and would he take the balloon back now so that they could be on their way, etc. etc.

But Jethro didn't say anything. It went against all of Howell's assumptions and expectations, but it had suddenly become clear that Jethro was the kind of man who was willing to put his child's happiness above his pride.

"Say 'thank you' Michael," Jethro instructed through a clenched jaw.

"Thank you, mister!" Michael said, eyes still wide.

"You're welcome," Howell replied.

"We'll be on our way now, captain," Jethro waved at Captain Longhorn while pointedly ignoring Howell. "Take care of yourself."

"I always do," Longhorn assured the man, a bemused expression painted on his weathered face.

Jethro shot Howell a parting glare, then proceeded to usher his son away with a hand firmly pressed against his narrow back. Involuntarily, Howell felt himself soften towards the man. _Perhaps I shouldn't have called him a sea monkey after all … _

"Well, boy, if the magic business keeps going the way it is, you can always join up with Mr. Pickens," Longhorn told Howell with a chuckle, before striding away, clipboard in hand.

* * *

**More a/n: **Sorry if this chapter was long and boring. It is needed for later events (although of course that's no excuse).I tried to cut it down a bit. But if you've made it this far, let me know what you think (pretty please with sugar on top? ;-P)! 


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